


A Creed is Just a Primary Directive For Organics—And Other Reasons IG-11 Likes Mandalorians Best

by urisarang



Series: A Droid, a Mando, and a Jedi Walk Into a Bar. . . [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Din is just a bad patient, Droid Rights (Star Wars), Everyone else is confused, Fix-It, Fluff, Grogu Ships It, Hurt Din Djarin, IG-11 POV, IG-11 is a good nurse, IG-11 lives, IG-11 respects the creed, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Season one finale fix it, Strangely Romantic, probably could be rated teen but safe side, rated for injury and blood only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29678358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/pseuds/urisarang
Summary: IG-11’s memory banks have very few files on Jedi.  It is unacceptable to be lacking knowledge where it concerns the primary directive of caring for the child.  The Mandalorian shares IG-11’s distaste for missing information judging by his vocal patterns as he speaks with the other Mandalorian.The beskar helmet turns to face IG-11 and they share a look.  Acquiring the missing information will be a priority for them both once the child’s safety is assured.  It is good that they are already communicating and agreeing.Their marriage is already off to an auspicious start.((Yes I wrote another 'the helmet came off so they had to get married'—this time featuring IG-11!  You can pry this trope out of my cold dead hands))
Relationships: Din Djarin/IG-11
Series: A Droid, a Mando, and a Jedi Walk Into a Bar. . . [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206611
Comments: 42
Kudos: 100
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	A Creed is Just a Primary Directive For Organics—And Other Reasons IG-11 Likes Mandalorians Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).



> _strolls in several weeks late wearing sunglasses and sipping an iced coffee_
> 
> Loved your request and meant to have this treat done a lot earlier but it kinda went off the rails a little bit. Better late than never? :D  
> Anyway, I hope you like this. ^____^
> 
> Edit: It occurs to me some Mando'a translations might be in order.
> 
>  _beskar'ad_ \-- Child of iron (droid)  
>  _riduur_ \-- Spouse  
>  _buir_ \-- Parent  
>  _ade_ \-- Child  
>  _kov'nyn_ \-- Keldabe kiss. A gentle, often romantic, headbutt between helmeted people.

Base function programmed by Kuiil: To nurse and protect. 

There had never been a conflict between the few directives programmed into IG-11. The directive to obey the Mandalorian have always coincided with its primary directive to nurse and care for both him and the child. Though, the child’s welfare was always the one of prime importance out of the two. Something they had both agreed on.

Until now.

IG-11 looks between the child and the Mandalorian. The child is tired but otherwise in good health. The Mandalorian’s breathing is wet and labored. His self prognosis of ‘not gonna make it’ is founded if he does not receive immediate medical attention.

The Mandalorian tells the human female, designation: Cara Dune, to take the child to the covert in his place. The woman is a formidable warrior and has proven her loyalty. It is logical of the Mandalorian to give the child to her for safekeeping. 

IG-11 hesitates to follow the order. The child is safest with IG-11. Not even Kuiil was able to protect it properly. The Mandalorian coughs as he urges Cara Dune to leave him once more.

The decision is simple. IG-11 cannot allow one of his charges to suffer.

“Escape and protect this child,” IG-11 orders Cara Dune as it hands the child over to her. “I will stay with the Mandalorian.” 

She gives IG-11 a long, hard look. They share a discomfort in giving up one of their charges. She will do well in taking care of the child. 

“Bring him back,” she in turn orders IG-11. It is unnecessary, the Mandalorian is under IG-11 protection. It will not allow any further harm to come to him.

“You have my word,” IG-11 says, already turning back to face the downed Mandalorian. The group wastes no further time and leaves. Once the last of them is through the sewer opening the Mandalorian speaks.

“Do it,” his voice is strong, but the words are without meaning.

“Do what?” IG-11 asks.

“Just get it over with,” the helmet lists to the side slightly. His words are softly spoken and surprisingly clear for the injuries he has sustained from the explosion. “I’d rather you kill me than some Imp.”

“I told you, I am no longer a hunter. I am a nurse droid” IG-11 reminds him. It appears that the Mandalorian is suffering memory failure from his injuries. The helmet moves back to look at IG-11 in its cameras.

“IGs are all hunters.”

“Not this one. I was reprogrammed,” the Mandalorian does not appear to comprehend. It would be futile to spend any more time trying to reason with an organic with a head injury. Better to apply treatment first. “I need to remove your helmet to save you.”

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” the Mandalorian says, pointing a blaster at IG-11's head. It spins its cameras at the surprising show of strength. 

“No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I swore the creed,” the Mandalorian says, his voice weak over the suit’s speakers but the blaster hardly waivers. A commendable show of ideals in the face of death, but illogical.

“I am not a living thing,” IG-11 responds logically. The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts to the side, a sign he is thinking but his response time is significantly delayed. The head injury must be severe to cause such cognitive impairment. 

IG-11 must insist once again that the Mandalorian allow the unit to attend to its primary directive. Before IG-11 can repeat the request the Mandalorian, against good judgment, speaks again.

“You are different,” he says, the blaster listing off to the side for a moment before refocusing back on IG-11’s head. “To me, you are alive. I cannot—it is forbidden.” 

The Mandalorian’s words cause a fury of connections to go off within IG-11’s processing relays. A strange, yet not unpleasant feeling. Almost as if a hidden primary directive is being brought online by the Mandalorian’s words.

Most curious.

Something to contemplate and investigate at a later date. IG-11’s sensors pick up the too rapid intakes of breath from the Mandalorian. 

Time is finite if IG-11 wishes to save him.

Devoting all spare resources and energy IG-11 searches its data banks for any and all information on Mandalorians. Much was destroyed when Kuiil had rebuilt this unit, but not all was lost. IG-11’s extensive knowledge of laws and regulations, due to their priority to the unit’s former designation as a hunter droid, was stored deeper within its memory banks and as such remain largely intact. 

The section on Mandalorians is woefully empty but there are a few things of note that catch IG-11’s attention. A subsection on all known Mandalorian clans and the varying codes of law (see creeds) that each group operates under. The information was downloaded into IG-11 for the dual purpose of avoiding unnecessary conflict while on a bounty and as a resource to use against any Mandalorian bounties it might get assigned. 

IG-11 finds it most fitting that that knowledge would now be used to save the life of one such Mandalorian. Kuiil had programmed IG-11 to understand irony and a nurse droid using its knowledge meant for death as a way to save a life is the most beautiful of ironies IG-11 has experienced so far in its short second life.

“Are there not two circumstances in which you could reveal your face and keep your creed?” IG-11 asks, and again there is a long pause before the Mandalorian responds.

“Between _Buir_ and _ade_ , and between _riduur_ ,” his words are slurred even over the helmet’s speakers. The helmet shakes back and forth slightly as the Mandalorian shakes his head. “But we are neither.”

“The solution is simple,” IG-11 explains with patience, organics are usually quite slow to follow logic and this one is suffering head trauma. “Your people are not ones for grand ceremonies. We only need to speak the words and it is done. We will be married and then you can allow the removal of your helmet so that your life can be saved.”

IG-11 cannot help but count each and every millisecond that passes in silence. Is the Mandalorian’s injury so great that he is unable to realize how little time he has left? Soon even the bacta will become ineffective at treating his many wounds.

“If you are hesitant due to my being a droid do not worry. I am fully capable of consent and the marriage between organics and machines is legal in 32.5% of inhabited planets in the galaxy,” IG-11 gently pulls the blaster from the Mandalorian’s loose grip. It takes his hand within its own and leans forward so its head is resting against the beskar of the Mandalorian’s helmet.

 _”Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,”_ IG-11 recites the ancient vows in perfect Mando’a. Another pause, though this one is shorter than those that came before it. The Mandalorian’s hand grips IG-11’s back weakly, his strength sapped with just staying conscious—but he manages to speak.

To repeat the words IG-11 had spoken, sealing their marriage.

His words are slurred, distorted, and worryingly faint through the speakers. IG-11 wastes not one more millisecond before it is lifting the Mandalorian’s helmet. Blood flows weakly from his nose, his mouth, and from many minor wounds across his face.

Worrying, but none so much as the sight of dark hair stained nearly black with blood. Brown eyes struggle to focus on IG-11, his pupils slow to dilate properly. 

IG-11 brings up the bacta spray and the Mandalorian shifts back. An inadvisable choice with his injuries. His cognitive functions appear to be rapidly declining to that of a frightened animal.

“This is bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours,” IG-11 informs the Mandalorian as he sprays where the blood is the thickest in the dark hair. Fear clouds the Mandalorian from understanding IG-11’s words. 

Perhaps humor would be in order.

“You have suffered damage to your central processing unit,” IG-11 informs him as it moves out of the Mandalorian’s space to allow him a better chance at understanding his words without triggering his more than ample self-defense instincts.

The Mandalorian’s mouth moves but no sound escapes. His eyes struggle but manage to focus on IG-11 and search his cameras for hidden meaning. 

“You mean my brain?” He asks in confusion. He is correct. It is a good sign he is able to follow some logic. Though it stirs disappointment within IG-11’s circuits that the joke did not serve its intended purpose. Perhaps his brain is too damaged to appreciate IG-11’s humor.

Unfortunate.

“That was a joke. It is meant to put you at ease,” IG-11 explains. The Mandalorian tilts his head to the side and a distressing sound escapes his lips. A gurgling sound, followed by a wet cough. Most concerning. IG-11 realizes that the sound is meant to be laughter. It is a kind gesture that the Mandalorian would choose to show his appreciation of IG-11’s humor.

But IG-11 wishes he would not make such sounds. 

It is distressing to hear the Mandalorian’s lungs struggling to expel fluids—likely blood—as he laughs. It is good to expel such fluids but illogically IG-11 finds the sounds to be most unpleasant. 

Fortunately, the Mandalorian soon stops, his eyes falling closed. His breathing, while labored, is no longer too fast nor too shallow. The bacta is already taking effect. 

IG-11 calculates that they can spare at most ten minutes before they must depart to meet up with the others in the sewers. It is not ideal, the bacta will only be able to repair the most critical of injuries in that amount of time. 

It will be up to IG-11 to prevent the Mandalorian from entering into combat until his wounds are more fully healed. It is a good thing that Kuiil had left backdoors to the remnants of its hunter protocols. They should prove to be most useful in the coming hours.

IG-11 allows the Mandalorian to rest for 5.3 minutes before interrupting the half-awake healing state. IG-11 is pleased to see that the Mandalorian’s eyes focus much quicker on its cameras. 

“We have to go,” IG-11 announces, the Mandalorian blinks and then nods. His facial expression showing determination. IG-11 picks up the beskar helmet and carefully slides it back over the Mandalorian’s head avoiding bumping still healing wounds.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says, his tone implying a deeper meaning of thanks.

“Thanks are unnecessary. I was merely performing my primary directive—caring for and looking after my charges,” IG-11 spins his cameras around as it considers what choice of words will have the desired effect on the Mandalorian. “Is it not the duty of _riduur_ to care after one another?”

A modulated sound of laughter—pleasant now without the wet sounds of blood filling his chest cavity. 

“It is,” the Mandalorian admits, IG-11 offers one of its arms to help him get to his feet. He accepts it with only .5 seconds of hesitation. A vast improvement from all other times IG-11 has attempted to initiate physical contact.

Progress.

As limited as the healing provided by the bacta was in so short a time one would not know it if they did not know the Mandalorian as well as IG-11 knows him. The pace he sets to catch up with the others is only 87.4% slower than his normal gait—and is speeding up with each additional minute that passes.

The Mandalorian’s drive, determination, and will are commendable. IG-11 does not remember much from its previous life as a hunter droid—but it remembers the surprising level of camaraderie it had felt with the mysterious Mandalorian. 

It remembered choosing to follow the Mandalorian’s lead. An act that was outside of its bounty hunting protocols. Odd that even then IG-11 was making an exception for the Mandalorian. Thinking outside its more ridged programming. 

Peculiar. 

IG-11 makes a note to do a full diagnostics check on its logic and directive coding at the earliest convenience. Kuiil had reprogrammed IG-11 to learn and as such it is capable of altering its own code and directives—within reason. 

IG-11 could never do harm to either of its charges. Not the Mandalorian, nor the child. Nor could it allow either to come to harm if it was in its power and ability to prevent. Those two directives were the only ones Kuiil had not given IG-11 access to change. 

Even if IG-11 could change those directives, it has no desire to. 

It has become attached to the two organics during its short second life. The child is what most organic species would call ‘cute’ and the Mandalorian displays honor and integrity with his every action. 

IG-11 could not wish for better companions.

They arrive at the Mandalorian’s enclave but in place of Mandalorians all that they find is a pile of empty armor. Fifteen helmets are visible. A great loss for an endangered species. Kuiil did not program in emotions, but loss is something that IG-11 understands all too well. 

It wishes it did not understand the emotions that are going through the Mandalorian. It is unpleasant and fills IG-11 with the urge to reach out. To give comfort it is not properly equipped to give.

The Mandalorian drops to his knees in front of the pile and grabs one helmet. He holds it in his hands reverently. IG-11 wonders who it was that the Mandalorian lost. 

It will likely never know.

Emotionally compromised the Mandalorian begins to accuse his teammates of betraying him. Always so quick to think ill of others he is. What sort of life had the Mandalorian lived to expect such things, IG-11 wonders. It hopes that this will not escalate. It would hurt their chances for survival if IG-11 were forced to kill the two humans in defense of the Mandalorian. 

It is fortunate that a female voice calls out ending the altercation before it turns to violence.

The lone survivor speaks. Tells of the fate of her people. She knows not if any survived but she hopes so. A feeling that IG-11 shares. It would be a shame for such a noble people to face extinction.

The Mandalorian, henceforth to be referred to as IG-11’s Mandalorian when needing to specify, shows signs of emotional distress. His clan has nearly been wiped out, it is not an unexpected response. Organics are often greatly attached to those with familial ties. 

This is something IG-11 is beginning to understand more each day it spends in the company of the Mandalorian and the child. 

As IG-11 had felt the driving need to obey its directive to heal the Mandalorian’s physical wounds it feels the same need to soothe his emotional ones. It is not properly equipped for such a thing. Its knowledge of organics’ psychology is limited to life threatening issues only. 

Another gap in its knowledge that must be corrected if it is to be expected to fulfill its new role as _riduur_. 

The Mandalorian is strong, IG-11 has every reason to believe that his inner strength and determination will carry him through until such a time as IG-11 can acquire supplemental codecs for the continued care of its charges. 

The two Mandalorians speak for two minutes and 17 seconds, IG-11 uses this time to strip stormtrooper bodies of their weapons and explosive devices. It is highly likely they will have need of them during their escape from the tunnels. 

IG-11’s audio sensors record their conversation, filing it away to analyze in detail for hidden knowledge behind the words—something organics are overly fond of. The female Mandalorian then tasks IG-11’s Mandalorian with returning the child to its kind.

To the Jedi. 

IG-11’s memory banks have very few files on Jedi. It is unacceptable to be lacking knowledge where it concerns the primary directive of caring for the child. The Mandalorian shares IG-11’s distaste for missing information judging by his vocal patterns as he speaks with the other Mandalorian.

The beskar helmet turns to face IG-11 and they share a look. Acquiring the missing information will be a priority for them both once the child’s safety is assured. It is good that they are already communicating and agreeing. 

Their marriage is already off to an auspicious start.

The female Mandalorian goes on to mention that it is past time IG-11’s Mandalorian forms his own clan. As the first enemy defeated by his clan the mudhorn will become their signet. A clan of two.

“Three,” IG-11’s Mandalorian corrects her. She turns her gaze to look at each of his companions trying to reason out which the Mandalorian would claim as their life companion. 

IG-11 steps forward and offers a short bow.

“I see,” her voice is carefully neutral, but it is the forced neutrality that gives away her surprise. She returns the greeting with a bow of her golden helmet. “A formidable _beskar'ad_ , the warriors you raise will not want for training nor protection.” 

A high compliment coming from a warrior species. 

“Thank you,” IG-11 accepts. “I will assure our clan’s safety with the last spark in my body,” a momentary pause as IG-11 accesses its memory banks for the appropriate phrase. 

“This is the way.” The two Mandalorians echo the phrase. 

Of the organics IG-11 has on file it likes Mandalorians the best. Their creeds, their words steeped in repetition are not unlike its programming. Though their two species are as different as could be physically—mentally they are not so different. The rigid creeds they follow allow them to understand IG-11 better than most other organics.

IG-11 was quite fortunate to have been assigned the same job as this Mandalorian—even if it cost IG-11 its first life. To have this one to call a companion? To be understood and treated as an equal? 

Invaluable to a droid.

Silence once again falls between them as the female Mandalorian works the pauldron with her tools. She wastes no movement. Expending precisely the amount of force needed and no more to work the beskar. A talented armorer.

When she has finished IG-11 admires the artistry of the mudhorn. Highly skilled work, speaking of many years of practice. 

“And what of you _beskar'ad_?” She asks her tools in hand. “Do you desire to wear the markings of your clan upon your metal skin?” IG-11’s cameras spin in surprise. 

What a novel offer.

“I would not need to damage your metal shell—a small infusion of beskar would be fitting for one joining a clan,” her helmet tips to look at the pile of armor on the ground. “We have much to spare now.”

“You honor me,” IG-11 agrees, bowing its head once more. IG-11 would rather they spend their limited time preparing for the battles that are to come but it would be a grave insult to turn down her offer. It would also give time for the bacta to do more work before IG-11’s Mandalorian does something heroic—and dangerous to counter effect IG-11’s medical care.

IG-11 watches her work, a true artisan and master of her craft. Not once does she set off IG-11's defensive sensors despite the intense heat required to weld the beskar to its chest plate. 

Only 12 minutes pass between the time they first walked into the covert and when she finishes before they are free to continue on their way. The female Mandalorian declines the offer to join them in their escape from Nevarro. She states she has much work to do with smelting the beskar back down for future foundlings. 

This must be where IG-11’s Mandalorian acquired his determination and moral compass. A shame Mandalorians are facing extinction, a most impressive species—made doubly more impressive since the requirements for being a Mandalorian are so simple.

A sworn creed.

Unlike nearly every other species—including IG-11’s mechanical brethren—Mandalorians have no requirements save upholding their beliefs. One is not born a Mandalorian—they chose to become one. The only other species that grew by adoption was that of the Jedi, thought to be extinct until the child was discovered. 

Droids are logical beings, they do not believe in fate, nor destiny. IG-11 is no different in that regard. But there is a symmetry to the two species—once great enemies—joining together at their species’ respective ends into one clan. Greater together than apart.

IG-11 feels pride to be in such a clan. It does not know if there were droid Mandalorians who had come before it. It would not be a surprise if there were. IG-11 has married into the clan, not a true Mandalorian without swearing the creed but was still honored a member of their clan.

It already has its own ‘creed’ to follow. It does not know if swearing the creed would be something it would desire in the future. The idea has an appeal, but it is of lesser importance than their continued survival. 

IG-11’s sensors pick up the sounds of approaching footsteps. Enemies. It hands over the child to Cara Dune and leaves the forge. Protection protocol activated.

The three stormtroopers are quickly neutralized, but there will be more. There are always more.

IG-11 returns to the room and the female Mandalorian hands IG-11 a jet pack and orders it to hold onto it until Din Djarin is well enough to use it. Another spark of _something_ inside IG-11’s circuits. 

A designation for its Mandalorian.

Its cameras swivel over to where its Mandalorian, designation Din Djarin, is restocking his munitions. Designations are of great import amongst organics, less so with droids. IG-11 finds itself appreciating the unknowing gift the female Mandalorian had given to it by speaking Din Djarin’s name.

She then commands them all to leave. She will stay and cover their retreat by herself. A noble sacrifice, IG-11 devotes several banks of memory to her honor. She will not be forgotten.

They make their way to the river of lava and board the craft. IG-11 speaks with the droid and they begin their trip downriver. Things seem to be going well.

Things rarely stay that way in IG-11 limited experience. This time is no different. 

An entire platoon of troopers is waiting at the mouth of the tunnel exit. They would be shot down within moments of exiting the tunnel. Hundreds of calculations run through IG-11’s processing unit. Hundreds of unacceptable outcomes. There is only one that satisfies its prime directives.

A pity it is one that IG-11 will not survive to see.

“They will not be satisfied with anything less than the child. This is unacceptable,” IG-11 once again hands over the child to Cara Dune. “I will eliminate the enemy and you will escape.”

“You don’t have that kind of firepower, you wouldn’t even make it to daylight,” Din Djarin says, turning back to give IG-11 a look before once again looking to the mouth of the tunnel. He does not understand.

“That is not my objective,” Cara Dune hands the child back over to IG-11. She does not understand either. IG-11 will have to explain.

“I still have my manufacturer’s security protocols from when I was a hunter. If my designs were to be compromised, I must self-destruct,” Din Djarin turns fully around, body language denoting anger and misunderstanding.

“What are you talking about?”

“I am not permitted to be captured. I must be destroyed,” Din Djarin takes three steps forward, towards IG-11. He suspects something but does not yet understand the full meaning of IG-11’s words.

“Are we going to stand around and keep talking or are we going to get out of here?” Greef Karga interrupts. IG-11 sets down the jet pack.

“I can no longer carry this for you, nor can I watch over the child,” IG-11 places the child within Din Djarin’s arms.

“Wait, you can’t self-destruct. Your base command is to watch the child, that supersedes your manufacturer's protocol, right?” More of a demand than a question. His voice is louder than it has been since he was injured, and his tone strong. Brooking no argument.

It is good to hear that voice take a commanding strong tone one last time before self-termination. IG-11 had grown fond of it.

“This is correct.”

“Good. Now grab a blaster and help us shoot our way out,” Din Djarin turns partially away thinking the conversation is over. It is not. 

“Combat is impossible. We will be killed. The child captured. This is not acceptable and all will be lost,” IG-11 informs Din Djarin. It regrets that every word is true. “Sadly there is no outcome where the child is saved in which I survive.”

“Listen,” his voice shakes slightly. Fear and sorrow detectable over the speakers. “You’re not going anywhere we need you—”

“Please tell me the child will be safe in your care. If you do so I can default to my secondary command.”

He looks up at IG-11, his fingers curling around the child in his grip.

“But you will be destroyed,” an outcome that neither of them desires but is inescapable. 

“But you will live,” a slight gasp of air as Din Djarin takes a sharp breath. “And I will have served my purpose,” IG-11 looks down at the child, both to emphasize its point and because it wishes to. It will replay the image of the child safe in Din Djarin’s arms on a loop before it initiates self-destruct protocols. 

It will provide much comfort in its last moments.

“Wait—” Din Djarin’s voice is so sad. It is illogical for him to care so much for something he once hated. “We—I need you.”

That first spark of the hidden protocol fires again at the correction of his words. It is gratifying to know that it has had such an impact in so short of a time. A shame that they did not get more time.

“Do not be sad. I was never alive,” IG-11 says in an attempt to console him. Much like the attempt at humor—it does not work.

“I told you, to me? You are alive. And—and I’m not sad because you are not going to die,” he is in denial. The first stage of grief, good. With hope, he will go through the other stages just as quickly. “We will find another way, I can’t—”

“That is a lie. As I have already stated, there is no outcome where all three of us survive. I am not organic, my existence is worth less than yours by default. If one of us should make a sacrifice it is only logical that it be me,” IG-11 argues with flawless logic. It knows that is not something organics are often fond of in the moment but perhaps it will bring him some comfort in the future.

Din Djarin looks down at the child in his arms then back up at IG-11. He takes a step forward and reaches out with a gloved hand. He lays it over the mudhorn signet welded to IG-11’s chest plate.

“What of your vows? What of _our_ clan? Did those words mean so little to you? Were they just a means to an end?” His voice starts off as shouting but dies down to barely a whisper. IG-11 is incapable of feeling pain, and yet if asked it would be forced to use the word to describe how it feels to hear Din Djarin speak in such a way. 

“I meant the words,” IG-11 says as gently as it is capable of doing. “You are the bravest, most honorable, and caring being I have had the pleasure of meeting. I am honored to call you _riduur_. I regret that we did not get more time, but there is no other option with what we have available. Only my self-destruct charge has enough force to take out a platoon all at once.”

Din Djarin stares at IG-11, the fingers of his hand curling to grip IG-11’s metal frame. If IG-11 were not made of metal the grip would have been painful. Reaching out IG-11 mirrors Din Djarin’s hold grasping a beskar plated shoulder. 

The child coos when IG-11 strokes its long ear with its other arm. Their continued survival is worth everything to IG-11. Even without the primary directive ordering it, IG-11 knows it would have come to value them both just the same. 

“I can’t—I can’t lose anyone else today,” Din Djarin says, his voice crackling over the speakers. He pulls and IG-11 does not resist. A _kov'nyn_ , their second and their last. A touching goodbye. 

“Please.”

Never before has IG-11 heard a creature sound so desperate. So close to tears. The hidden directive fully activates upon hearing the distressed tone of IG-11’s _riduur_. 

IG-11 does not wish to die. Has never wished for it. But neither has it truly desired to live outside of fulfilling its protocols. 

Until now.

It does not wish to leave Din Djarin a widower the same day he became _riduur_. It does not wish to leave the child with only one parent. It does not wish to ever again hear Din Djarin sound so broken. 

IG-11 wants to live. 

To learn more about the child. To learn more about its _riduur_. It wants to continue to grow and learn. To discover more hidden directives within its code. To become more than just a hunter-turned-nurse.

IG-11 wants to feel as alive as the organics that surround it.

Electricity shoots off through off of IG-11’s systems touching every part of it. Systems connect in new ways previously never considered. The connections are made entirely at random, born out of desperation. 

A deadman’s gambit.

Something organics are famous for. Escaping certain death at the last moment against great odds. It was always something IG-11 and its fellow droids were incapable of comprehending. How could one surpass their own abilities when on the brink of death or if in defense of a loved one? 

Droids were built with only so much ability, and only so much room for upgrades. Once their limit was reached they could go no further. The threat of termination, of themselves or a charge, would not change those facts. 

IG-11 understands it now.

Its desire to live, to stay with its _riduur_ , and their child? It has done something to IG-11 on a fundamental level. It does not know if that the hidden code was the work of Kuiil, a chance flaw left over from its core personality being rebuilt, or something that was within IG-11 this entire time just waiting to be activated.

In the end, it does not matter.

All that matters is that IG-11 has a solution where they all survive. It is not without considerable risk. It looks down at the two organics within its arms, but they are worth it.

“Din Djarin, designation _riduur_ , sub designation charge,” the helmet rapidly tilts up to look at IG-11. “As we are now _riduur_. I have become one of your clan and thus classified as a member of an endangered species. It gives us both alpha-omega authorization that supersedes all other protocols.”

IG-11 opens its chest plate revealing the self-destruct device flashing a warning red. Armed and ready, but the countdown sequence is not yet active. Din Djarin flinches back, but IG-11 catches his wrist within its own, guiding his hand over the device.

“I will never harm you, nor allow you to come to harm. Together we will care for the child,” its words a creed of its own making. IG-11 guides Din Djarin’s hand to grasp the explosive device. It falls from IG-11’s chest and into Din Djarin’s gloved hand without activating. 

“This is the way,” IG-11 says closing the hand around the ball before closing its chest cavity and turning back to the remnants of the ferry droid. The droid’s lower half appears to be in good condition. It will last long enough for their purposes.

When IG-11 turns back around Din Djarin is standing in the exact position it had left him in. Cradling the self-destruct device in his hand as if it were a precious thing.

“I thought IGs were built so they could not function without this. That it’s removal would both set it off, and render the droid useless.”

“You are correct.”

“Then how—” his voice is full of disbelief, one that is shared by Greef Karga judging by his look of horror and the unblinking stare at the slowly blinking device. IG-11 puts one hand over its chest plate.

“I have a new directive. A new reason for continued existence. I no longer require the code of my creators,” Its cameras look between the child and Din Djarin. “I have something better.”

The child coos happily in agreement. The rest of the organics are silent. No doubt they are having difficulty processing with their inferior fleshy brains. It does not matter, they will get there eventually. 

IG-11 has learned to be patient with them.

“We will place the explosive device within the shell of the ferry droid and send it down. One shot from your rifle is all it will take.” 

The plan is simple and they execute it without issue much to everyone’s relief. And then the sound of an Imperial tie fighter echos over the lava flats. 

IG-11 should have known better to think it was over.

They open fire at the tie fighter, but their weapons lack the power to get through the reinforced hull. The first strafing run misses them. The next will not. 

Greef Karga suggests the child use ‘its magic hands’ as he waves at the child. The child waves back making a happy sound.

His mind must be folding under the pressure of their situation.

“Well, I’m out of ideas.”

“I’m not,” Din says stepping over to IG-11 and reaching his hand out. “My jetpack.”

“You are not healed.”

“And we are out of time, give it.” IG-11 relinquishes the jetpack. They have no other choice. 

The tie fighter runs at them straight on this time. Confident that their weak weapons are no threat. The pilot flies far lower to the ground than would normally be advisable in their confidence.

How unfortunate for the pilot that their Mandalorian is a bold one. 

Din Djarin fires up his jets and waits for his opportunity. The rest of them provide cover fire hoping to cause the pilot to miss at the last second. By a statistically improbable chance, they manage to do just that. 

Din Djarin blasts off straight up narrowly missing the tie fighter and shoots off his grappling hook. It lands and he is dragged behind the tie fighter violently for a moment. He uses his jetpack once more to pull himself forward over the cockpit. 

He has not healed nearly enough to be doing this much physical exertion. Even if he were in good health beforehand the strain on his shoulders from the G force would tear the muscle.

IG-11 will once again have to provide care for its reckless _riduur_. It is no wonder the female Mandalorian had sounded so dower when she tasked IG-11 to keep the jetpack from her tribesman before he was healed. 

His antics must have started early in his life.

Even with sensors set to max, it is difficult to make out what is going on with the tie fighter. There are sounds of a blaster going off. The tie fighter goes into a spin and then nothing for a moment as the tie fighter evens out its flight. 

Worry begins to seep into IG-11’s circuits until there is a small explosion several hundred feet back and below the tie fighter. Din Djarin yet clings to its hull. Another death roll in an attempt to shake him off. 

This one works. 

Cara Dune gasps as they watch a small speck that could only be Din Djarin falling away from the tie fighter. This was their only hope of taking it down, no pilot would be foolish enough to get in close a second time.

An explosion on one of the tie fighter’s wings surprises them all. The organics watch as it crashes to the ground but IG-11’s attention is only for Din Djarin. 

He is not activating his jet pack. Handing the child over to Cara Dune once more IG-11 moves to intercept. It calculates the probable point of impact and the speed at which he is falling and does not like what the math says of Din Djarin’s survival chances. Had it been anyone else IG-11 would not have wasted the effort to attempt a rescue.

Not dying when he should is one of Din Djarin’s specialties. IG-11 is counting on it continuing to hold true. 

The jet pack fires, and fires once again. Attempting to slow his descent. It will not be enough, not with how he has strained his already damaged body. IG-11, already running at full speed, jumps up, catching Din Djarin as he falls. It cradles him in its arms in the ideal position to absorb the shock as they land.

IG-11’s legs absorb the worst of the shock and force, most of what is left is dispersed through its arms that hold Din Djarin across his shoulder and his legs. He still lets out a pained grunt when they hit the ground. 

“You have undone nearly all of the bacta’s work. You will need a second application and bed rest,” IG-11 informs him. He makes a feeble show of attempting to remove himself from IG-11’s grip. He is easily overpowered. “I cannot risk you making it worse. I will carry you until we return to the ship and I can properly attend to your wounds.”

The fact that he does not argue further is telling. He goes nearly limp in IG-11’s arms and stops trying to get up. It promotes both a good feeling and a terrible one within IG-11. 

Caring for organics is so complicated.

“You may hold the child while I hold you,” IG-11 says as Cara Dune and Greef Karga approach. The speakers of the suit make a distorted sound that IG-11 cannot determine its meaning. No words of explanation follow the strange sound. Perhaps it was a glitch.

“Damn Mando looks like your guild rates are going to go way, way up after this,” Greef Karga says letting out a whistle. Cara Dune appears to be holding back laughter as she places the child on top of Din Djarin’s chest and into his waiting arms. 

Odd, there is nothing humorous about their situation. Then again, organics do behave strangely after near-death experiences.

“Don’t say it,” Din Djarin says as Cara Dune loses the battle against holding back her laughter. Greef Karga joins in soon after. “Alright, laugh it up,” his voice is full of good humor but underlining exhaustion and pain are evident in his voice.

“I must return to the razor crest and provide medical treatment. If there is anything you need to say it can wait until after I have assured he has gotten eight solid hours of rest,” IG-11 announces. Cara Dune’s eyebrows raise denoting surprise but she does not move to impede them. 

A wise decision.

They part ways with a promise to ‘get in touch’ once his wounds are healed and his nurse allows it. Their snickers of amusements can be heard for several minutes as IG-11 leaves them behind. Their questionable mental health is not a concern to IG-11.

The only things that matter to IG-11 are already in its arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Tried writing this in a wildly different style as the POV is a droid, hopefully, that worked—and hopefully, this isn't full of errors cause I'm yeeting it into the void and then going to bed. :D 
> 
> Also I totally fully ship this now and there is a good chance I'll end up making a 3 part series at some point like 8 fics down the priority list.  
> Because I totally don't have enough rarepairs on my docket xD


End file.
